


To Get Lost in Your Thoughts is a Very, Very Complex Thought

by aplainsimpletailor



Category: Star Trek: Picard
Genre: (if you could call it that), Alcohol, Flirting, Gen, Hurt Cristóbal Rios, M/M, Original Character(s), Pre-Season/Series 01, Pre-Star Trek: Picard, Queer Het, SORRY IF THIS IS A FLOP, Season/Series 01 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23728090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aplainsimpletailor/pseuds/aplainsimpletailor
Summary: In the familiar ambiance of his favourite cigar bar, Tres Herraduras, Rios meets an unfamiliar face.
Relationships: Cristóbal Rios & Alonzo Vandermeer, Cristóbal Rios & Original Male Character(s), Cristóbal Rios/Original Male Character(s)
Kudos: 7





	To Get Lost in Your Thoughts is a Very, Very Complex Thought

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! :D Thanks for clicking on my little shot-fic here!  
> This is another one of my delves back into the world of creative writing after a rather long break and also my first serious attempt at integrating an original character into one of my stories, so please bear with me if you can!  
> Enjoy the read!

It was another one of those nights. 

It was another one of those nights where Rios knew that continuing his read of Miguel de Unamuno’s ‘Del sentimiento trágico de la vida’ while making his way through a bottle of pisco brandy and treating himself to a Cuban wouldn’t bring him any comfort.

Well, actually, he needed the pisco. And a smoke, too. 

But Rios knew one thing for sure: reading existentialist philosophy was the last thing he needed to be doing tonight. 

The last thing he wanted to be reading was about how life itself was tragic by definition. Life was simply man’s desperate, yet vain, attempt to create or do something with which he can be remembered after the inevitable arrival of Death with his glistening scythe, intent on removing man from life as he knows it. 

It was another one of those nights, so Rios found himself sitting in another one of those bars. 

Rios found himself in Tres Herraduras, a cigar bar, enveloped by the haze emitted by his own Cohiba and the mix of smoke given off by the cigars held between the fingers and lips of the bar’s other patrons. 

Tres Herraduras was the nearest of its kind to Rios’ apartment. 

It was a tiny little thing that apartment, but it was a roof over his head nonetheless. The rent was reasonable, and with the rather meager retirement pension and disability compensation allotted to him by Starfleet, he appreciated being able to save money for essentials like food, clothing, and most importantly, alcohol. 

Whenever he thought of Starfleet’s scanty compensations, Rios found himself grow quite resentful. 

He hadn’t realised how little him having to watch as his captain put his own phaser in his mouth was worth to Starfleet. How little having to watch as the brain matter of the man he loved like a son loves his father was splattered across bulkheads was worth to Starfleet. 

He hadn’t realised how little the pain that numbed his body as he watched the most noble man he knew fall lifeless in front of him was worth to Starfleet. How little having to watch the blood coming out of his mouth and clumps of cerebellum falling out of the back of his head was worth to Starfleet. 

Rios had always felt guilty for what had happened that day. He should not have confronted Captain Vandermeer in the disrespectfully patronising manner he did.

He could have acted faster. When Captain Vandermeer trained his phaser towards himself, Rios should have acted faster. 

It was one of his duties as executive officer to protect his captain against all that threatened him. Rios had worked so hard to protect his captain from the hostilities of the outside world that he had failed to protect Captain Vandermeer from the hostilities seeding themselves inside his very own mind. 

Rios had failed. Miserably. 

But it was not only himself who he believed had failed Captain Vandermeer that fateful day. Starfleet had failed him, as well.

Starfleet was no longer Starfleet. 

The Starfleet Rios had known would not have given the black flag directive it had ordered that day. 

The Starfleet Rios had known would not have gambled the lives of the thousands living aboard the ibn Majid in order to drive its captain to murder. 

Rios lifted his glass of pisco to his lips, draining it of whatever alcohol remained in it in an effort to wash away the bad taste those nagging thoughts about Starfleet had left on his tongue. 

He quickly realised that the taste in his mouth was not caused by his disdain for Starfleet, but rather by the odour given off by the cigar of the patron sitting nearest him. They had just lit a new cigar. Rios reckoned it was one of those knockoff Cubans made in the Dominican Republic. 

Despite his contempt for Starfleet (though once in a time immemorial, he had proudly called himself Starfleet), Rios knew that while the current members of Starfleet Command had betrayed the very ideals with which Starfleet was founded on, there were men who wanted nothing more than to adhere to and promote the original aims of Starfleet. 

Men like Captain Vandermeer.

Rios’ train of thought was interrupted as his glass was refilled with pisco by one of Tres Herraduras’ bartenders.

He grunted a thank you. Though really, it was more of an acknowledgment that he knew someone was there than a proper giving of thanks. 

Rios was never a fan of bars that championed the idea of ‘service with a smile.’ The fakeness underlying the kindliness of the workers only irritated him, especially on nights like these. He much preferred service with silence. That’s why he liked this bar. His glass was always kept full and every refill was quietly added to his tab. 

Rios had hoped that the chatter and music in Tres Herraduras would have helped him drown out the virulent thoughts that hounded him persistently, but he felt as if they had only been amplified since his arrival. 

He hated nights like these. 

He took a generous swig of pisco. He knew from experience that how he felt was nothing that enough brandy couldn’t remedy. 

“You drank that like it was nothing!” 

Rios turned to face a stranger who had made their way over to his table. 

“That’s pisco brandy, right? I caught a glimpse of the label as the bartender passed by. That’s some pretty strong stuff.” 

There were many things Rios was feeling right then, but he was certainly not feeling particularly sociable. He did not feel like dealing with the amazement of a stranger tonight.

“It’s potent. But you get used to it.” Rios retorted, averting his gaze from the stranger in an attempt to make his lack of interest known as he raised his glass to his lips.

“You must drink it a lot then.”

“Lots to drink away, my friend. Lots to drink away.” Rios’ voice trailed off as he necked some more pisco. 

“And does it help?”

Rios looked up to meet the stranger’s eyes, “Help?” 

“Help you forget.” 

“Why are you asking me that?” Pique was evident in Rios’ tone.

“That was a rather intrusive question, wasn’t it? I’m sorry. Do you mind if I sit?” Before he could answer, Rios watched as the man slid into the seat across from him. Rios found he had company. 

“Just make yourself comfortable.” Rios mumbled sarcastically, taking another swig of his pisco. 

“I just know that,” The stranger paused and crossed his legs, folding his hands over his knees, “I just know that it’s never a good thing to see someone brooding alone in a bar. Usually means that they have a lot on their minds. It’s good to see how they’re doing, rather than letting them drink the night away all by themselves.”

Rios didn’t respond. 

“Oh, I’m sorry! I realised I never introduced myself. How rude! I’m Arlo. And you are...”

“Cris.”

“Cris,” Arlo repeated, “It’s nice to meet you.”

Rios grunted in acknowledgement, similar to what he had done with the bartender who had filled his glass not too long before this fellow had shown up, inviting himself to take a seat at Rios' table.

“What you said about,” Rios paused to raise his glass to his lips once more, leaned his head back, and guzzled its remaining contents, tapping the bottom of the glass to ensure that he swallowed every last drop of alcohol. He felt like he was going to need it. Extroverts weren’t really his thing, “About how seeing people alone in a bar is usually a bad thing. Who taught you that?” 

Arlo shrugged, “I guess it has something to do with Starfleet and their whole ‘no one gets left behind’ thing.” 

Rios wasn’t sure he understood the correlation, but maybe that was just because he had become quite partial against Starfleet. 

A humph escaped Rios, “That’s the thing about you Starfleet lot. Never know when to leave anyone the hell alone.”

The second half of Rios’ statement seemed to go over Arlo’s head, “Oh, I’m not Starfleet. Well, I almost was. I failed my competition exams.”

“Bummer.” Rios murmured. He was scanning the bar for a bartender. He wanted more pisco. 

“No, it’s quite alright actually. It’s like that old saying. Oh, how does it go now…'sticks and stones may break my bones, but chains and whips excite me’.” Arlo remarked. 

Rios’ attention was called back to his table, where he was now facing Arlo with a look of sheer confusion plastered on his face, “What? Where’d you hear that? It’s ‘sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never break me’.” 

“Oh. So it is, isn’t it?” Arlo remarked before letting out a little giggle.

Rios couldn’t help but chuckle a bit. That was ridiculous. This whole situation was ridiculous. Though, he found that the spirits in his glass had made him quite calm. He lacked the resolve he might have had in his younger days to rid himself of this man’s company.

Maybe this meant that he was just getting old.

“So, what did you in on the competition exam? Hyperspace physics?” Rios asked.

“No, no. That section went fine actually. It was the psych test.”

“Yes, being faced with your greatest fear. What’d they make you do?” Rios was delighted to see a bartender making their way over to him with more pisco. 

Arlo sighed, “Well, they took me to a room where there were other examiners. They said we were meant to be completing some type of written assignment.” 

Rios’ attention faltered as he began watching the bartender pour more pisco into his glass.

“We all began working quietly. I don’t really remember what the assigned prompt was. After about - it must have only been about ten minutes - some intruders, wearing all black suits, with masks completely covering their faces, beamed in and just started shooting everybody with phasers. I was spared, I didn’t really get why in the moment. Of course, it ended up just being a simulation. They had just wanted to see my reaction to the situation. All the other examiners and the proctor were just holograms. I guess that breaking down crying wasn’t the reaction they were looking for, so I failed.”

“So, what was your fear?” Rios asked, eyeing his full glass of pisco.

Arlo shrugged, “Just being, like, the sole survivor of something like an ambush or an invasion. I don’t want to watch my friends die and be the only one left. I don’t want to live out my life with something like that constantly being on my mind.”

Rios lifted his glass, “You dream it, I live it.” He drank.

“You’re Starfleet?” Arlo questioned Rios. He seemed surprised. Rios didn’t give the impression that he was too fond of Starfleet. 

“I was Starfleet.” Rios corrected.

“Oh,” Arlo considered this for a moment, “You left?”

“Well, that’s one way to put it,” Rios mumbled before taking a sip of pisco. He moved his glass from his mouth, raising it into the air a little, calling Arlo’s attention to it, “They’re the reason I’m here right now, so. That’s that.”

“What do you do now? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Rios adjusted himself in his seat, resting his elbow on the back of his chair, and crossing his left leg over his right.

He shrugged, raising his palms, “Not much. What do you do? What’s your job since you’re not working under Starfleet?” 

This question invoked an interesting response from Arlo.

“Well,” He giggled, eyeing Rios with a bit of a smug smile and what seemed to be a bit of a pink blush tickling his cheeks, “I just do what I can to make money.”

“And how do you do that?”

Arlo opened his mouth, as if he was going to say something, but closed it before any words left it. 

He spoke, “Well, I lay down beside men, and I just,” He paused and chuckled a bit, averting his gaze from the man sitting across from him, “Offer them my services.”

“Oh. So a hooker.” Rios replied matter-of-factly. 

“Well,” Arlo stopped speaking for a moment, “Yeah, I guess you could say that. I just work to provide men with some, how you say, relajación. Distract them from the bad in their lives. Help them forget. At least for a little while.” 

Rios nodded slowly, his gaze shifting to the floor. 

Arlo raised his hands to his mouth, “I’m sorry. This is pretty embarrassing.”

“No, it’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Rios assured, “What made you choose to do that instead of getting a job that might be a little bit...easier?” 

”For the same reason I tried to join Starfleet. I don't think there’s any fun in easy.” Arlo smiled.

There was a brief pause in the conversation as Rios analysed the man sitting in front of him.

He was slim. Young. He looked like he was of an average height. Not that tall, but not that short. He probably stood at about 1.75 metres. Dark hair and dark eyes, his features were all Hispanic. 

“So,” Rios shuffled in his seat, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table in front of him, “You say you work to help men forget the bad in their lives, huh?”

Arlo nodded.

“Wanna help me?”


End file.
